Who would think Bob would go? Not I. We met in a grade 9 detention. Was it our first or second year in grade 9? First, I think. We became fast friends. Crazy stunts in our early teens. Eluding the township police now and then.

We joined the navy together. Bob to the aircraft carrier, HMCS Bonaventure. Me to some beat up old frigate that saw service in the second war. We eluded the shore patrol on the occasions when we met in Halifax.

Raised families together. Survived the sixties and seventies together. Now he’s gone.

Dearest friend, a poem for you.

Gulf Stream Memories (for Bob)


Blow steady, you wind from the south west
Touch him with those memories of long ago
When your warm fingers tussled the waves
and placed glistening pearls upon my face

Blow steady, up from the islands
He can see the dipping of the gray steel deck
And picture the peacock-coloured spray
As it fans out from the plunging bow

Blow steady, up the Gulf Stream
His shirt fluttering at your touch
His hair gently tugged as he stands in to you
The whisper of his cap tally over his brow

Blow steady, as he grips the palm-warn helm
The darkened wheel house creaking to your playful sweep
The dimmed light from the canting compass
And muffled voices from the bridge

Blow steady, you friendly wind
Again he hears you sighing through the halyards
And sees you play with the navigator’s charts
As he plots our island passage

Blow steady, you wind from the south west
Engulf him for a moment in his past
Allow him a fleeting glance of a long-forgotten bow wave
That no land-friend has seen

Blow steady, my south west wind
Till he is but a memory

My memory. . . . .

See you in Slackers, pal.

Jim

Juno Beach, 2010

The August sky was bright. Clear. Blue. The odd sea bird flew over head. I could see the White Cliffs through the heat haze. Far off. Ghostly.

The sand was warm. A few children making sand forts. Some on the tidal flats clam digging. Towels spread out on the beach. Sun bathing.

Families walking the promenade. A merry go round mounted by laughing kids. Parents at tables sipping wine and smoking cigarerttes. Probably Gitanes.

We are on Juno Beach near Courseulles-sur-Mur. Sipping wine. Strolling the beach. Picking up rocks. Picking up the past. I can’t imagine the chaos that went on here 66 years ago. The roar of naval shells overhead; incoming German artillery crashing and slashing into the beach. Pretty coastal homes being smashed to smithereens. (Ugly condos border the beach now)The rattle of small arms and machine guns. The crack and crunch of mortars and grenades. Paths leading from the beach -- busy with the living, the dead, the wounded.

The soft August wind swept across the beach grasses. Swaying like a regiment of phantoms on the move.

My grandson looks at me. He is thinking the same.

Back to Caen. A train to Paris. Next day I head off home. He heads back to Afghanistan.

Juno Beach. . . Afghanistan. . . . . and it goes on.

Another rock; another beach

I wonder how big this beach rock was before that fateful 19th of August, 1942. Before it was blasted into the sky time and time again by German mortars; before it was chiseled and spun and skipped along the beach by German machine gun and rifle fire; before it was kicked by leather Canadian boots or crushed by Canadian tanks?

Dieppe. Jesus Christ, who sent the men into that hell!! A stony beach; a break wall; concrete tank defenses; towering cliffs on either side of the beach; German machine guns sighted in on every inch of the shoreline.

Before the landing craft could hit the beach German artillery and mortars were splashing, crashing and bursting around and into the assault craft. Some men were blown out of their landing craft, picked up by another and blown out of that one. Almost as many dead and wounded arrived on the beach as did the living.

Machine guns chattering from the cliffs; raking the swarms of infantry men as they hit the shore. To make it to the wall was nothing more than sheer luck, egged on by guts and or fear.

Rocks jamming tank bogey wheels. Tracks thrown off. Tank crews swept by machine gun fire as they were escaping their vehicles. Some tanks made it into the villages. None came back.

Operation ‘Jubilee’ it was named. No jubilation that day!

Pinned down; the ‘zip’, ‘zip’, ‘zip’ of Mauser and machine gun bullets above the din of mortar explosions. Rocks, pebbles, sand and bodies hurled into the air; the rocks to fall back to the beach; the bodies to eternity.
Men of the Canadian 4th Infantry Brigade: Royal Regiment of Canada, Royal Hamilton Light Infantry, Essex Scottish Regiment. The Canadian 6th Infantry Brigade: Fusiliers Mont Royal, Cameron Highlanders of Canada, South Saskatchewan Regiment, Canadian 14th Tank Battalion (Calgary Regiment) – 907 of them joined in the Regiment of the Dead. Nearly 600 hundred of them wounded. Almost 2,000 made prisoner.
The raid was called a reconnaissance in force. The men would later call it suicide.

Acts of heroism – plenty!
Self sacrifice? Plenty!
Sheer stupidity? Only in the planning rooms back in England.

We have Dieppe towns and villages. Dieppe streets and schools. Do many people know where the name of their town, village, school or street came from? Probably not. Do many of them care? Probably not.

Such is Canada.

Lest We Forget

.

Bermuda Beach Party!!!

Mr. Warren was our Weapons officer. He had joined the Royal Navy as a boy seaman and transferred to the RCN after the war. He was probably the best officer I ever served under.

On this occasion we had just come into Bermuda after several weeks of strenuous exercises with the Yanks. Mr. Warren invited all the senior weapons rates to a beach party near Fort St.Catherines -- his treat.

The following afternoon about fifteen of us plus Mr. Warren walked to the beach on the other side of the island. Sandwiches, pop, and plenty of booze. Several hours were spent pissing it up on the beach when Mr. Warren said, "Come on then, lads, lets go to the Sportsman's Club (a bar on St.George's Island) and I'll stand you a few more drinks. Off we went.

By early evening we were pretty boisterous. Mr. Warren entertained us with stories and songs from his old RN days and we in turn sang the standard filthy RCN ditties.

Another round of beer and rum was placed on the table and Mr. Warren said, "Now, men, I shall treat you to an old naval custom." He went up to the bar and came back with a few pages of newspaper. Grabbing his beer he climbed on the table and began another rousing bawdy song. All of a sudden he dropped his shorts and underwear, stuffed the paper between his rear cheeks, set a match to it and began to dance. "The dance of the flamin' arseholes boys!," he called out as he jigged around the table top.

We all cheered and cheered.

When the flames got perilously close to his arse he hollered, "Now, lads!" We all grabbed our drinks and threw them at the flames. The flames went out and smoke swhirled from the charred remnants of Bermuda’s daily newspaper, The Royal Gazette. We gave another rousing cheer.

The bar man threw us all out.

The following morning we had to sail for where I can’t remember but we were up early breaking down those damn awnings that we rigged in foreign ports. I was not well. I was on top of the quartermaster's shack hanging on to a gun director as I worked on the awning, and worked on not throwing up. From the deck Mr. Warren cheerily called up, "Good morning, Steel, everything okay up there?" "I've been better, Mr. Warren," I claimed, "but I'll survive." "Good, good, Steel, carry on then." Off he went down the deck, smiling and greeting everyone he met.

He never mentioned the infamous dance and no one who was there ever brought it to his attention. He was just too good a man to embarrass.

And we sailed off into the mystic.

Afghanistan -- crap!

Afghanistan — shit! I’m having trouble with this war. Democracy, liberate women, build schools, build hospitals, get rid of the opium fields, get rid of the Taliban, get rid of corruption. . . all sounds good. Trouble is there is too much ‘all’ to get rid of.

How about concentrating on getting rid of the Taliban first then get on with the other objectives. Better yet, just let the Afghanis revert to the tribalism they so love and enjoy and we will get on with the life we so love and enjoy. Should the Taliban (or whomever the terrorist of the day nmay be) start up their training camps again, well then, we just have the USAF carpet bomb the buggers back to the hills again.

I personally don’t believe we should lose another soldier in this war. Let’s face it, within a year of our claiming victory (whenever that may be) and returning home, the Taliban (or some other fanatical group claiming their God to be on their side) will sweep down from the hills and scurry like rats throughout the countryside, raping, murdering, spreading fear and undoing every modernization the west has established in the country.

Our culture with all its democratic perks is not wanted in Afghanistan; was never wanted in Afghanistan. Communism was not wanted in Afghanistan; was never wanted in Afghanistan. The rule of the British Raj was not wanted in Afghanistan. Never was, never will be. The Afghanistan with all its war lords and religious zealots is obviously what the people of the Afghan want. Well, for sure, that is what the men of Afghanistan want.

Grow dope, beat your women, brainwash your children with religious bafflegab so they will go out and slaughter anyone who thinks just a little different from them, that is the culture . Their life style has been going on like that for centuries — millennium to be more exact. Why should we send young men and women in harm’s way to change such a backward lot? We should not. Never should have.

On buying new pants

So I gave in. Yep, no pressed jeans for the wedding. New trousers.

Back from the park this morning. Maria says, “Okay, Spot’s done in, let’s go for a walk downtown to Herzog’s and get you a good fitting pair of pants.” I, done in also, acquiesce and off we go.

We walk at a good clip and enter Herzog’s clothing store in a half an hour. A fine looking old gent dressed to the nines pulls himself off of a stool and greets us warmly. “What can I do for you this morning folks?” Maria tells him I need new pants; dress pants; pants that fit and don’t hang like bags.”

“Hmmmm,” he muses, “you look size thirty-four.”

“Nope,” say I, “close but I’m a thirty-two.”

“Hmmmm,” says he again, “what colour are you looking for?” I tell him the colours of my three sports jackets and he immediately says, “Tope, you will want a tope colour. Tope goes with everything.” I acquiesce again.

We go over to a rack that has dress pants just waiting to be purchased. He picks out a pair for me. “Well. . . just take these to the fitting room and try them on. We will go from there.”

Into the room. Off shoes and shorts; on new strides. I have forgotten my glasses and I can’t read the size nor can I read the price. Except for the length they fit perfectly. Not baggy, not too snug. Herzog’s do alterations so the extra foot of length is no bother.

I step out to show Maria and the gent. Maria thinks they look great as does the salesman (why wouldn’t he?). “I’ll take them,” sez I.

“Just stand over their and I’ll turn them up and pin them,” directs he.

Pinned, I return to the change room. Off with the new; on with the old.

He makes out the bill. I pay. $79.00!! My first car didn’t cost that much. Never mind, they are a good looking pair of strides and I feel quite comfy in them. “You can pick them up next Friday,” says the old gent.

“By the bye,” I say to him, “what size are they?

“Thirty four.”

“Jeez,” I reply, “I’ve been exercising and keeping a good diet for months.”

To which he replies, “Keep at it.”

Eyes, ears and nose! Arrrrrrrrrgh!!

It’s not my balding head that is a sign of age. It is not my white goatee that is a sign of age. Not my memory lapses. Not my aching back or my aching knees. It is not getting up to pee two or three times a night. It is not my failing eyesight or my failing hearing. Old age has struck me broadside on three fronts. They are:

1. Eyebrows growing uncontrollably. Good grief, they hang behind my glasses when reading thus interfering with the written word. They lash my forehead when walking into a brisk breeze. They get stuck in my eyes. Spot latches on to them periodically. I try to trim them but I can’t do it without glasses. I put my glasses on and I can’t get at the eyebrows. I am very seldom at a barber shop (are they still called that?) so don’t get them done professionally.

2. Nose hairs: Why is it for 60 years the hairs remain in place; that is, up in the nose. Since the sixth decade they have been growing like bramble bushes – wild. I tried scissors but when I stuck them in the nose they would bring on a sneezing fit which proved quite dangerous if I didn’t get the scissors out of the hole in time. I think my girls picked up on my aging process when one year for Christmas they bought me a nose hair electric trimmer. I still sneeze but I am now sneezing safely. I won’t get into the cleaning of the trimmer. I dread the Christmas morning when I open their gift to me and find a box of Depends.

3. Ear hairs. You would think God would have figured into the process that when one ages, one’s hearing becomes less acute so why would He make ear hairs grow in tangled masses thus blocking off the hearing canal. I suspect He is a bit of a joker. If I didn’t trim my ear hairs every week, I’m sure within a month or so I could comb those hairs up over my bald spot. For added youth-like appearance I could let my eyebrows grow and comb them up over my bald spot too. I guess I should learn to appreciate what hair I do have. I should also appreciate that all my friends look older than me.